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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083761">The Weary Counselor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenCelebrindal/pseuds/ElenCelebrindal'>ElenCelebrindal</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quenta Quenelya [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beleriand History, Blood and Violence, Friendship, Fëanorian Erestor, Gen, Happy Ending, Kinslaying (Tolkien), Light Angst, Not Beta Read, Second Age, just mentioned history, the blood and violence are only told as history</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:09:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29083761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenCelebrindal/pseuds/ElenCelebrindal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No one needed to look at Erestor more than what it was necessary, lest they discover the eight-pointed star he proudly still wore around his neck as a fine pendant, the star he still had on his clothes, woven in thinly treaded silver on his garments.<br/>[...]<br/>Because Erestor was there, when the Second Kinslaying happened. He was there, when the Third brought his lord Maedhros on the verge of madness.<br/>He was a kinslayer himself, a protagonist of those dark stories still sung as a warning, not just a mere bystander but an actor deeply involved in terrible acts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erestor &amp; Glorfindel (Tolkien)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Quenta Quenelya [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Weary Counselor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>English is not my native language, please forgive me accidental mistakes.</p><p>I never properly wrote in this fandom, save for a translation of a very old work of mine. When I stumbled upon some of the notes I wrote a good handful of years ago, I decided it was time to explore some of them in a story.<br/>I am well aware that a lot of people think of Erestor like a fëanorian, but I wanted to write this anyway. Those notes are years old, by now, I didn't know how amazingly famous was this headcanon. I love it.</p><p>The term fëanorian, here, is used for the followers of the sons of Fëanor, rather than just the brothers themselves. I feel the need to specify this because I mostly see that term just in relation to the family, and not the followers. It was needed here to have a more generic meaning. </p><p>Glorfindel and Erestor use Quenya names when talking out loud, but I kept the Sindarin forms for everything else.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No one, except a carefully selected few, knew who Erestor really was and what his origins were. His life in Imladris was serene, calm, all dedicated to long days spent in the library and quiet nights lost in the far glimmer of a thousand stars.<br/>
He was a counselor, a good friend, a lonely and avid reader, and nothing else.<br/>
The Elves that dwelled in Imladris never thought twice about his background, or his motives. They knew him just like Elrond introduced him to them, without the shadow of war looming upon his frame, with just an old glint in his grey eyes.<br/>
He was known as a teacher for Elladan and Elrohir, as a good companion for Glorfindel’s frequent chattering, and as Elrond’s closest friend up in those domains.<br/>
In fact, no one could understand why, upon his arrival, Glorfindel acted so harshly towards him. Why, if Erestor was such a quiet and peace-seeking Elf, the golden-haired warrior of the First Age lashed out at him during one of his first evenings there. Why he was willing to talk so much with him, but always with wide open eyes and perked ears.  </p><p> </p><p>No one, really, needed to know.<br/>
No one needed to look at Erestor more than what it was necessary, lest they discover the eight-pointed star he proudly still wore around his neck as a fine pendant, the star he still has on his clothes, woven in thinly treaded silver on his garments.<br/>
Erestor had never been a pacific soul, by any means, but he learned to accept peace and quietness after the tragedy that struck them all like tremendous lightning.<br/>
The red cloak with the proud, gold fëanorian star sewn into it was still his most prized possession, something he could no longer wear in public but safely treasured and kept in the depth of his wardrobe. The sword he never sported again on his hip lay unused and un-bloodied beside that precious cloak, still sharp and still drenched in the now gone vital fluid he so mercilessly stole from his kin.</p><p> </p><p>Because Erestor was there, when the Second Kinslaying happened. He was there, when the Third brought his lord Maedhros on the verge of madness.<br/>
He was a kinslayer himself, a protagonist of those dark stories still sung as a warning, not just a mere bystander but an actor deeply involved in terrible acts.</p><p> </p><p>He never gave away the wrong impression, never flinched at the harsh words written in history books. They didn’t know. They had no idea what the Oath was, what forceful constriction it was for weary elves that didn’t want to fight or spill blood anymore.<br/>
He never denied the evil behavior of some of his kin. Never protected the servants that left Elured and Elurin starve in the woods, prey to the cold and the horrible bites of unending hunger. He never tried to defend the Oath itself.<br/>
Even those who were condemned to it knew the Oath wasn’t right. The sons of Fëanor knew their mistake.<br/>
It didn’t mean they were evil.<br/>
Tired, worn down, exasperated, frustrated, forced to drown in blood spilled by their hands, but never evil. The Oath made them do unfathomable things, but their minds only wanted some rest. Their bodies only wanted some rest.<br/>
The call of the Silmaril was too strong for them to handle.</p><p> </p><p>Erestor was one of the few survivors that knew.</p><p> </p><p>There were others, those exhausted souls that didn’t follow Maedhros and Maglor in the unspeakable bloodbath the War of Wrath had been, nothing but servants and cooks and disillusioned teachers.<br/>
They fled when Amon Ereb was lost to the orcs, ran until they couldn’t breathe anymore.<br/>
Erestor was still a warrior, back then, filled with unbridled power and burning with anger, but he never forgot what Maedhros told him.<br/>
The last order before galloping away, before losing himself in scalding flames and pain.</p><p> </p><p><em>Protect them</em>, he told him. <em>Bring them where they will be safe</em>.</p><p> </p><p>There was but a handful of soldiers with them. Those who were left there by Maglor, and those who refused to fight the last battle out of love for the twins.<br/>
The stories never told of them. It was always just the fëanorians.<br/>
Maybe it helped the people believe no one supported them anymore, maybe they wanted to believe those hollow and incomplete stories because of course no one would have followed those kinslayers more than they already did.</p><p> </p><p>Those survivors were still there, still roaming in Imladris, their coat of arms hidden in memories and their weapons sheathed ‘til the Sun would come down in flames. Even those who were servants still tried to catch their blades, if frightened, such was the life of who fled from the world.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Erestor sighed, writing yet another annotation on the book he was revising, the quill scratching loudly against yellowed paper. It was wrong, everything was incomplete, everything was biased.<br/>
Even if hidden behind his annoyance, the desire of cleaning those old accounts was strong in the counselor.<br/>
He didn’t know who wrote them first, or who tried to add to the mess, but the amount of wrongness wasn’t exactly surprising.<br/>
It was the account of the Second Kinslaying, after all. Whoever chose to write down that document, clearly believed nothing but the hopeful downfall of every fëanorian in the history of Arda.<br/>
It was biased to the point of suggesting that Dior was killed not in battle, as it in reality happened, but while desperately trying to act as a diplomat with no weapon in sight.<br/>
Frustrated, Erestor drew a thin line over the incriminated sentence and wrote a new one, clearly stating that Dior and Celegorm – it was hard not to call him Turcafinwë – killed each other in battle, in a fair duel. Erestor still remembered the whimpered agony that Maedhros let go, back in that day, upon discovering yet another brother lost to the Oath.<br/>
Celegorm had died with a noble sword in his chest, but not as swiftly as Dior left the world. <em>He</em> had the blade piercing straight through his heart, but Celegorm…<br/>
The sword missed his heart, pierced through skin, muscles and lungs, and blood was the only thing that Erestor could smell on his body; drowned in it, as its deep red shade filled his lungs, mercy not even in death.</p><p> </p><p>The memory was enough to produce tears prickling his eyes, but Erestor blinked them away. He was supposed to be a historian, not a lofty poet.<br/>
He merely wrote down how they died, and moved on. Even if it pained him greatly.<br/>
Risks could not be taken, not when he finally found a place where to settle down and live with no war ringing in his ears. Writing something so specific… not many people made the reading of those old accounts a habit, but those ones who were interested would not ignore such meticulous precision of details.</p><p> </p><p>When he turned to the last page, careful not to tear the fragile paper, he froze.<br/>
His eyes barely scoured the letters, but he found himself lodged onto a name. His name.<br/>
The account hadn’t been written by some fëanorian warrior, but the accuracy of the names greatly surpassed the one of the facts.<br/>
Heart thumping madly into his chest, Erestor made a resolution to not panic. No one, he hoped, actually read that particular account; it was too old, its pages too brittle for it to be handed out freely.<br/>
Maybe only Elrond himself actually had it in his hands, hence the reason why he expressly asked for Erestor to restore it, because he knew what was in there. He knew his name, his brief description, was in there.</p><p> </p><p><em>Captain of Maedhros’ guard: Erestor.<br/>
Noldo, dark hair, dark grey eyes, dangerous</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Not enough to place the blame, the generic description could have referred to literally any Noldo in their numbers, but the name…<br/>
Elves were careful, with names. It was not unique, certainly, but rare for two notorious elves to have the same names. Very much a common occurrence amid the common folk, but not so when it came to people who were considered somewhat important.<br/>
Warrior captains were part of that minority. Fëanorians warrior captains… they were even worse.<br/>
No one would have ever given the name of a fëanorian captain to their child, even if the name fit like a glove. Too many implications, too much history that no one wanted to repeat.<br/>
The most blatant exception was a son of Fëanor himself, namely Curufin. His father-name, Curufinwë, was nothing but exactly the father-name of Fëanor.<br/>
Which was, unsurprisingly, another big reason of why elves were particularly careful not to name their children with known fëanorian names.</p><p> </p><p>Erestor swallowed dry, the quill trembling in his hand.<br/>
If someone had actually read that… there was no way of being mistaken. Erestor was born during the Years of the Trees, way before the biggest horror that encompassed them all, the never-ending tear-stained war no one and everyone wanted to remember, and it was something very well known.<br/>
It couldn’t be hidden, it was him who brought Elrond and Elros in their cousin’s protection. The elves dwelling in Imladris were not there, at the time, either too young or too far from Lindon, but no one ever thought to hide that information.<br/>
Not even Elrond, who longed for security and safe havens, though about stopping the fact from spreading around.<br/>
But it would have been wasted effort, because in his coming Glorfindel was a living proof that Erestor was, indeed, an elf that lived through that cursed First Age. The screaming that ensued itself was enough of an evidence.<br/>
The people had no idea Erestor was a warrior tainted by war, but they knew certainly enough.</p><p> </p><p>First Age, Noldo, dark hair and dark grey eyes, the name… all was enough to link the name in the book to Elrond’s counselor. The fact that Erestor was also known as very close to his lord, not in kinship but in friendship and family bonds, did not help his cause. Especially considering who Elrond’s family was, back in those days.  </p><p> </p><p>Taking a deep, calming breath, Erestor dipped the pen in black ink and covered the name, hid it from view, making it seem like a drop of ink carelessly fallen onto the page. Make it seem like an accident, hide his name away from searching eyes and curious minds.<br/>
He didn’t want to write a fake name on it.<br/>
As much as the Kinslayings pained him deeply, he was still a fëanorian at heart. Still faithful to his lord, to the copper-haired prince that could have been great, but lost his all to an Oath. He wasn’t going to lie his way out of that trouble, hiding was better.<br/>
Hiding could bring to a discovery in more pleasant times, when they’d all be reborn and the world made bright with their light.<br/>
He was about to hide the description as well, but the abrupt sound of door slamming close made him drop the quill, so much he was tense.<br/>
He didn’t turn the page in time, and a lock of gold hair fell on the paper.</p><p> </p><p>«Laurefindelë», he called, putting a quick stop to the tremor in his voice. «Your presence here is quite a surprise».<br/>
Dissimulate? No, it wasn’t going to work. He knew it as soon as Glorfindel’s long fingers took the quill and moved it away, freeing the words not yet covered by the feather that veiled them.<br/>
So, instead, what he did was taking the quill back in his fingers, and raise his gaze to the other Noldo when he sat down in front of him.<br/>
Though, what he saw was not anger, nor the glint of disgust he so often recalled in those who talked of the massacres. His pale grey eyes, not tired by unending war anymore, were looking at him with pure curiosity in their recesses, and maybe a bit of unveiled disappointment.<br/>
But nothing else.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>«You», Glorfindel said, breaking the heavy silence between them. «That name belongs to you».<br/>
Not a question. Not an accusation.<br/>
Simply a statement, met with a hesitant nod.<br/>
He closed his eyes, not lost in thought but merely taking his time, and re-opened them with a calm expression softening his features: «That book is one of the many I’ve read, since I came here. I was wondering when Elrond would finally think about… restoring them», was the word he ended up saying.<br/>
There were many crossing his mind, maybe counterfeit or manipulation, but at the end of the day it wasn’t his problem.<br/>
It stopped being his problem when he realized Erestor was, in fact, a good person. Dangerous underneath all his politeness, and a warrior behind the façade, but not as bad as people believed all the fëanorians to be.<br/>
In all honesty, maybe not even the sons of Fëanor themselves were actually bad, but far from him to admit it. Not in those times. Not when he was still dubious about their motives and lives.</p><p> </p><p>He noticed the dread seeping in the counselor’s expression, and shook his head: «I am not here to blame you for that. Nor I am here to insult you, or force you to bring the truth on the tide», Glorfindel reassured him, if only to make him less tense.<br/>
«I understand that some choices have to be made, and I respect those that do not hurt our kin».<br/>
Difficult words to say, considering he was talking to a kinslayer, but fair words nonetheless. A past that was wanted behind had no reason to come to the surface, if not required.<br/>
And that particular detail was, as a matter of fact, not required.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Erestor didn’t quite come to a stillness, despite the blond’s composed words. He was still hiding history for his own benefits.<br/>
He didn’t intend to be discovered while doing so.<br/>
Guilt seeped into his soul, and made him reconsider his… friendship with Glorfindel? He wasn’t quite sure he could call it that.<br/>
«Noble choices, yes. Choices that help in their path. Those are to be made, no question asked. But I am not quite sure about hiding one’s name simply out of fear», he responded, pondering his reply with careful thoughts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>«You fear to be recognized as a kinslayer, in these years of newfound peace. That is enough of a reason to be wary of that history».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The bitter smile that came up to his lips couldn’t be helped: «Oh, but I am a kinslayer, my lord», he said, now with a sharp voice. «I have raised my sword to draw my own kin’s blood, that is no lie».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Though he did not want to be reminded of that, Glorfindel kept his composure.<br/>
It was terrifying, dreadful also, to see how quickly Erestor could go back to his fierce and admirably frightening self. The past haunted him, and the present was but a public image of austerity and gentleness.<br/>
He remembered him, back when Gondolin wasn’t reality yet, younger than him but filled with unquenchable fire.<br/>
The only living elf, aside from himself, who could still claim to have the light of the Trees engraved in his eyes, on those last welcoming lands so far from the West.<br/>
That light only made his fire burn stronger.</p><p> </p><p><em>Dangerous</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He <em>was</em> dangerous. Glorfindel knew.<br/>
Even if the First Kinslaying didn’t stain his bright blade.<br/>
A lethal warrior, as the actions of Maedhros’ army came to be knows in the splendid hidden city, and a faithful one indeed.</p><p> </p><p>«No, that is no lie», he finally said, breaking yet again the heavy silence curtained between them. «But a fear it still is».<br/>
And he wasn’t going to blame him for taking that peace for himself. He made sure to get that message delivered.<br/>
«Though, I do have a question. A not so pleasant one, but one that has been harassing my mind nonetheless».</p><p> </p><p>Dripping more ink on the text he intended to hide, Erestor gestured for him to continue, and Glorfindel weighed his question. It was no easy inquiry, what he was anticipating to know.<br/>
Only when the counselor closed the book shut he voiced it: «You did not participate in the First. Why the Second and Third? So far went your faith for prince Nelyafinwë?».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The hand still gripping the quill contracted so much that the feather between his fingers snapped. Not that he wanted to appear so distraught, in response to that question, but what good would have made him a sheer façade of indifference?<br/>
It was obvious he was talking about the Kinslayings, even without mentioning them. It was obvious he needed that answer to understand how to act with Erestor, to avoid tiptoeing around the matter like he had been doing for a while.<br/>
It was a long time before Erestor finally spoke: «I… Laurefindelë, I have to ask for you not to lash out, for my words will not be pleasant to hear», he however said first, in a hope to get a bit more clearance. He never tried to explain himself to anyone. Not even Gil-galad inquired so much about his bloodied past.<br/>
Only when Glorfindel nodded, just a slight movement, the dark-haired elf decided to speak: «The First Kinslaying could have been avoided. Fëanáro did <em>not</em> need to kill for those ships. He could have found another way, another bargain. I will not tell you I understand what actually drove the Spirit of Fire towards those actions, but I can tell you that grief and anger and the weight of a doomed destiny can make you partake in unspeakable acts.<br/>
In all honesty, I don’t blame Fëanáro for his actions, though I blame him for not insisting on a different route».</p><p> </p><p>He could see Glorfindel recoiling a bit at those words, the slightest flinch that would have gone unnoticed by a less experienced eye.<br/>
He didn’t stop talking.<br/>
«When we arrived in Beleriand, I was not yet sure of who I wanted to follow. When Fëanáro burned the ships, and I saw Nelyafinwë stepping aside, I knew who I wanted to be faithful to. I was willing to follow his father in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath hadn’t him acted so dreadfully, but even I thought that those ships had no reason to be set ablaze».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>«So you swore your faithfulness to Nelyafinwë», Glorfindel nodded, but a mere whisper.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Erestor gave an affirmative gesture: «The first war hit us hard. When Fëanáro died, a lot of our hopes burned to ash alongside him. His recklessness could have doomed us all even more than we were already damned, I am not afraid of admitting that».<br/>
He had been scared, he and all the rest of their army.<br/>
Scared because yet another elf died in Morgoth’s eyes, scared because Fëanor was supposed to be a leader in an unknown land no one could know. They were alone, on a bloody battlefield, swords dripping black blood and wounds hindering their spirits.<br/>
Maedhros was a ray of renewed hope in a black void of despair.<br/>
«He managed to regroup us, and give us something to do. Something to avoid thinking of what war we stepped into. It was Nelyafinwë himself that came up to me, after I swore my allegiance, asking for me to become one of his captains. It was a honor for me, to accept».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Glorfindel had no doubt it was still a honor for him, to have fought under such a significant title.<br/>
He was on the Ice, back when that happened, fighting for his life in a well different manner, cruel winds tugging at his clothes and ice cracking beneath every step. He could understand the all-encompassing fear that different battles brought upon their actors.<br/>
And, to an extent, he could understand why Erestor held his position so brightly.<br/>
Maedhros was, without doubt, one of the most brilliant strategist and brave warrior of their kin. He could understand how much Erestor devoted himself to that elf.<br/>
But to that point…?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Reading the question in Glorfindel’s eyes, the counselor gave a bitter sigh: «When the other Kinslayings happened, only a small handful of us actually <em>wanted</em> to partake in them. So small that not even the sons of Fëanor themselves had an actual desire of raising the sword against their kin».<br/>
It didn’t escape to him that Glorfindel widened his eyes, hearing those words.<br/>
He let a resentful smile curve his lips; no one seemed to understand they didn’t want to do it. Not even Celegorm and Curufin, as wrong as they had been, had actually killed while having a desire to do so guiding their arms. They turned awfully unpleasant, cruel at worst, but always they killed those of their kin with unshed tears in their eyes.<br/>
Immorality was just an empty description, when you had nothing to lose, nothing to do but succumb to the Oath.</p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor himself, who repudiated his father’s deeds, once told Erestor that it wasn’t his father the one he fled from. It was but a mere shadow of him, tainted by the burned of the Oath and driven to unspeakable wickedness. He said almost exactly the same for his uncle, always with his little brother.<br/>
They were different, in Valinor, different before the death of Fëanor, different before tragedy and loss and tears became too much in conjunction with the Oath.<br/>
He voiced some of those thoughts, and could see a glimmering light in Glorfindel’s eyes.<br/>
«You knew Telperinquar», Erestor whispered, only then remembering how the young elf sought shelter in Gondolin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The golden-haired nodded: «I knew him, yes», he answered. «Though… perhaps not as much as I wanted to».<br/>
He was certain that, upon knowing him well, Celebrimbor could have explained a good bit of those horrible deeds that happened outside the valley of Tumladen. Maybe he could have been able to make sure some Gondolindrim could spare more than an insult for his doomed relatives.<br/>
«He dwelled in the forges, more than in the city itself, as if those were his home. Always alone, despite close to Turukáno. I always wondered what was hidden beneath the surface of his apparent hatred», Glorfindel sighed, now feeling guilty of how many times he dismissed his behavior as nothing but endless dislike for his father.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>«He never quite lost hope for his father, nor for his uncles. A mournful state to live in, indeed. But I haven’t answered your question».<br/>
The looming threat of the Kinslayings’ memory came back so suddenly that Erestor almost winced at those thoughts, but fought the instinct. He was there, he raised the sword, he drew blood. Haunting memories were no more heavy than the acts themselves.<br/>
Even Glorfindel barely avoided to scrunch his features in an appalled expression, so sudden was the jump back to the question.</p><p> </p><p>«As I said, almost no one of us wanted to spill more of our kin’s blood. But the Oath called the sons of Fëanor, and the Silmaril that was stolen by nimble hands was not for Dior to keep».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>«So you do believe the Silmaril never belonged to the House of Thingol», Glorfindel interrupted him, startled.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The counselor tapped his finger on the wood of the desk, flicking away the remnants of the quill: «In was in those hands, that much is true. But Thingol had no claim over the gems. And his wicked request went unnoticed, ignored, because he had no Oath to fulfill and a daughter not to give away in marriage because he did not desire of it. Asking for a Man to go and retrieve a Silmaril out of pure greed, with no greater force coercing you to it… he wasn’t forced to get it. He wasn’t supposed to get it. I hope you forgive me, but I believe that was nothing but a cruel play of the Valar».<br/>
Glorfindel visibly flinched at that. He figured as much.<br/>
«Nonetheless, he fell for his own greed», Erestor shrugged. «Dior could have avoided the Kinslaying, had he realized. He called it a family heirloom, just as Elwing did, even though Thingol wanted a Man to retrieve the one Silmaril, and wore it as he was the one that reclaimed it by his own hand. History doesn’t tell you this, Laurefindelë».</p><p> </p><p>Once again, he was inadvertently dancing around the man issue.<br/>
Glorfindel seemed to want to intervene, but did not talk.<br/>
«We were faithful to them. <em>I</em> was faithful to them. And I believed the right to the Silmaril was only ours. Those who were just soldiers, they followed along, listening to the orders of their princes and acting accordingly. But those who were closest to them… I saw what the Oath did to Nelyafinwë. I saw the burning of it in his eyes, the steadiness of his hand but the tremble of his fëa.<br/>
We wanted to help them. To put a stop to that agony».<br/>
When the soldiers rebelled, in the Third Kinslaying, neither Maedhros nor Maglor – at that point with one less brother to love –  actually cared. They were too far gone, too far lost in a bloodlust that could not be stopped. They let their men fight against them, but no one could win.<br/>
No one could best those who were prey to such horrors.</p><p> </p><p>«They tried to negotiate. They tried to avoid the Third, time and time again. History talks briefly of it, as if it was but a mere exchange of two letters, but they tried, until they couldn’t try anymore».<br/>
Maedhros withheld his hand, refused to attack a child as young as Elwing. Erestor would never forget how many times he heard his lord fighting his brothers, not because of malice but because the Oath consumed his own will, compelled him to fight.<br/>
They tried.<br/>
They failed.</p><p> </p><p>The Third Kinslaying had been the worst of the three.<br/>
The blade in Erestor’s hand was not silver anymore, once the battle was over, soaked in blood and smelling of rust.<br/>
When Elwing cast herself into the sea, Erestor was there to see Maedhros fell on his knees, hands gripping his hair and a silent scream twisting his face.<br/>
When Maglor brought the twins outside for him to know, Maedhros was almost in tears, unfallen since the death of the Valiant.</p><p> </p><p>«I am glad for Eärendil. I am glad for the help that he brought us. I am thankful that Morgoth could be defeated. But they did not <em>need</em> that Silmaril. Elwing did not <em>need</em> that gem. She ignored every call for peaceful confrontation, refused every compromise, and preferred to abandon her sons rather than abandon the Silmaril. And she was <em>rewarded</em> for that».<br/>
Elrond and Elros never called for their mother again, after learning how she left without them. They never called for their father, despite their eyes being drawn to the shine of his star.</p><p> </p><p>Maedhros and Maglor never told them a lie. They told them what happened, as soon as they grew capable of such understanding, did not spare those young half-elves the painful truth.<br/>
They grew to loathe their parents for their decisions, even if Maglor never intended for them to do so.</p><p> </p><p>«You can hate me, if you want. I won’t blame you for it», Erestor finally concluded, the chair scraping loudly on the floor as he got up and took the book in his hands. «But I believe that a harsh truth is infinitely kinder than a thousand soft lies».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Glorfindel silently watched as the counselor put aside the restored book, careful not to handle it brusquely. It was the first time he’d been given some insight of the inner machinations of the Oath’s behavior, and didn’t fully understand how to react.<br/>
He felt no lie in Erestor’s words, as heavy as they were, and no falter in his weary fëa.<br/>
Somehow, though, believing the sons of Fëanor were not gratuitously bloodthirsty and violent came a lot easier than he thought possible just mere minutes before.</p><p> </p><p>He knew them in Valinor, spent countless days in their company. He was not as old, for Maedhros and a goof handful of his brothers were born before him, but a good friend of their nonetheless.<br/>
When voice of the Second Kinslaying came to the city, he was too worried for the Gondolindrim themselves to actually stop and think about it.<br/>
Looking back now, Glorfindel saw the difference.</p><p> </p><p>«Hate is too strong of a word», he said, before Erestor could leave the library. «And so is dislike».<br/>
He made up his mind.<br/>
«I wanted to be angry at the fëanorian star for the tragedy that fell upon us, but I now see that they were not free of it more than us. I will not forgive the blood-shed of kin, but I am willing to grow and leave that in the past. We all lost something, and someone, in the war that has befallen».<br/>
He got up and walked up to Erestor, as to place a strong hand on his shoulder: «Let us go on, and accept the redemption of those who are  willing to fight for it. If you want to accept my friendship, warrior of the eight-pointed star, I am willing to give it to you».</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Despite his best efforts, Erestor felt tears of relief escape his eyes.<br/>
He nodded, infinitely grateful, and managed to smile.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I really like to think Erestor as a warrior, rather than a simple caretaker. It gives a lot more meaning to his choice of abandoning the sword in favor of a quill, in my personal opinion. </p><p>Also, I'm aware that is impossible for elves not to call their children with names already belonging to someone else. I just believe that a lot of the fëanorians - at least the important ones - have their names recorded, so it's easy to avoid using them. </p><p>If you enjoyed, or if you have criticism, feel free to leave a comment! It always makes my day when someone appreciates the writing enough to comment on it.<br/>Leave kudos, if you want, but more importantly, I really hope you liked this.<br/>Writers are made by the readers, after all.</p><p>Until the next story<br/>ElenCelebrindal</p></blockquote></div></div>
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